CHAPTER 17 - DOUBTS AND SECOND THOUGHTS

            As I covered the distance between Michael's house and mine, I had too much time to think and listen to the accusatory monologue running through my head.

            What is wrong with you? I asked myself, the voice of my self-righteous superego browbeating my puny little ego. I can't believe you started spilling your guts and blubbering in front of a total stranger! What did he think? I winced at the memory. Probably what a basket-case you are, and he'd be right. Boy, you really are pathetic, Magdalen Rose.

            I rubbed my forehead as if to somehow erase the memory. Why are you hanging around him anyway? He's got better things to do than entertain a moonstruck teenager. In the short time since meeting Stacy, I had managed to convince myself that Michael had only been tolerating my presence out of kindness because he felt sorry for me, and I didn't know what I found more irksome, being tolerated or being pitied.

***

            When I got home, my father was in the garage, putting new spark plugs on the Buick. Busy tinkering under the massive hood, he didn't notice my passing, but this was not unusual since he seldom paid much attention to me anyway. The truth was, I think I would rather have enjoyed working on the car with my father, but as a die-hard male chauvinist, he seemed disinclined to show me the finer points of automobile maintenance. He never displayed any great enthusiasm for having me underfoot in what he viewed as his domain. Here in the Bible-Belt and in my father's mind, a woman's place was still very much in the home. An archaic sentiment, but at least it spared me some of the nastier chores like mowing the lawn and mucking out the rain gutters.

            Trailing my hand along the wrought-iron railing, I climbed up the five concrete steps to the front porch and went inside, being extremely careful not to let the screen door slam behind me. I wasn't trying to sneak into the house; I just didn't want to give my mother any excuse to yell at me, something she did frequently and proficiently.

            I heard the sound of my mother's sewing machine coming from the den, so I stopped in the doorway and announced myself. "I'm home, Mom. D'ya need me to start dinner?"

            She didn't bother looking up from her task. "No, as soon as Daddy gets the car put back together, we're going out for pizza."

            That was fine with me since I liked pizza and found nearly anything preferable to cooking anyway. I looked down at my slightly rumpled attire. "Should I change clothes?" I inquired.

            She gave me an appraising glance over the rims of the half-frame glasses she wore for close work. A lesser person would have squirmed under the scrutiny, but I had grown accustomed to her laser-intense examinations. "I think you'll do, just go brush that hair," she replied as she went back to her sewing. Offhandedly in a tone that betrayed little actual curiosity, she asked, "Haven't seen you all day. Where've you been this afternoon?"

            "At a friend's house, listenin' to music," I answered evasively and I'd hoped not too quickly. I knew very well that my parents wouldn't understand or approve of my friendship with an older member of the opposite sex, so I very graciously decided to spare them the worry.

            At that particular moment, the thread broke and my mother unleashed a stream of very creative invectives that just skirted the edge of profanity but definitely qualified as swearing in spirit if not technically in fact. Her attention thus diverted and my presence forgotten, I was able to escape to my room without having to elaborate on the details of the day's events.

            I'm not naturally prone to prevarication, but if Mom had pressed further for the specifics of my activities, I was quite fully prepared to look her straight in the eye and lie like Tricky Dick about the Watergate scandal. Since I didn't expect to be seeing Michael again, I reasoned that vagaries and half-truths were permissible in this isolated instance. There was no good purpose to be served by getting my folks all stirred up over something that was a moot point now anyway.

            With a prodigious sigh of relief, I closed the door of Joey's room behind me. Even though it was now my bedroom, I would always think of it as Joey's room. I had added a few personal touches during my time in residence, but my possessions existed unobtrusively beside all the things that reminded me of Joey. Joey's poster of the Beatles was now sharing the wall with a poster of Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey about to exchange their first kiss in Franco Zeffirelli's production of Romeo And Juliet. I gave a snort of derision as I remembered how my father had refused to actually take me to see the movie because he'd heard that Leonard Whiting's bare backside had made a cameo appearance in the film. Never let it be said that my father had an open mind. Of course, that was of little consequence because his mind was also too narrow to encompass much in the way of new ideas even if he'd been willing to admit them. And, any new idea would have found itself in such dry and barren soil that it would certainly have withered and died without much ado.

            I stood before the mirror. Mom was right. The day's activities had not improved my hairdo. Stray wisps surrounded my head with a honey-brown halo, and wayward tendrils escaped the waist-length braid hanging down my back. I pulled off the elastic band that secured the end and began to comb through the strands, separating them with my fingers. Then, I picked up the hairbrush and using long stokes, I brushed out the spider web-fine locks until they covered my shoulders in a gossamer cloak of marcelled waves. All alone, with no one around to critique or contradict, I thought my reflection might be considered almost pretty - in a certain light and at a generous distance. Then, I remembered the blonde Barbie Doll I'd seen standing in Michael's living room. Who am I kiddin'? I thought, with a sneer of disgust at my freckled, wire-rimmed bespectacled reflection. Guys go for girls like Stacy. Somebody like me doesn't have a prayer. Feeling unlovely and unloved, I picked up an elastic band and began to brush and braid my hair back into its customary plait.

            Glancing down at the top of my dresser, I noticed the large white envelope resting on top of my jewelry box, a sealed greeting card, ready and waiting for tomorrow morning. Dad it read in my self-consciously precise cursive script. Tomorrow was Father's Day, and probably my least favorite holidays on the whole calendar. Truthfully though, I wasn't too crazy about Mother's Day, either.

            I did love my parents, in my own way. And I suppose they, in turn, loved me in theirs. However, my dysfunctional family more closely resembled an Edward Gorey illustration than a Norman Rockwell print. And I'll have to confess that it really bothered me sometimes. I dreaded each year when I'd have to wade through reams of those treacle-sweet greeting cards celebrating all the paragons of parenthood, just trying to find something suitable for the peculiar dynamics of my own family. Since there was a limit to what I could sign my name to with a clear conscience and a straight face, I usually opted for the humorous cards that were ironically more accurate and definitely more appropriate than hearts and flowers.

            My parents bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to those wise and nurturing icons I'd grown up watching on those television shows from the fifties and sixtie. My mother never baked chocolate chip cookies or did housework while wearing pearls and high-heels, and I don't think she ever in her life kissed anything to make it better. My childhood scrapes and scratches only garnered me a disinterested, "You'll live." By the same token, my father failed to measure up to the equally wise and benevolent patriarchs who dispensed sage wisdom between puffs on a Meerschaum or taught valuable life lessons by relating homey anecdotes and clever stories. All of my lessons were learned the hard way and reinforced by my father's smug, "Well, I guess you won't try that again!"

            Viewed through the perspective that comes with several decades, of course, I know that no one's parents actually lived up to the Hollywood ideal or the impossible role model espoused by the greeting card companies. At the age of 16, however, I was sure that everyone's parents were perfect except mine. Half of the time, I wondered what was wrong with them. The other half of the time, I was sure there was something wrong with me. Now, of course, I know that all families are dysfunctional, but some really are more dysfunctional than others.

            I gave my reflection another hard look. Aw, who was I kidding? I was just as bad a bargain in the daughter-department as my folks were at parenting. I was no more docile than they were doting. Tossing my hairbrush into a drawer, I threw myself down on my bed and flipped on my radio. A promising new vocalist named Jimmy Buffett was singing about how Come Monday everything was going to be okay. Yeah, right, I thought as I got up and went over to my desk to occupy myself until suppertime. Opening the bottom drawer, I rummaged beneath a stack of old workbooks and term papers to retrieve a loose-leaf binder from its hiding place.

            When Joey had gone off to war, I found myself bereft of my best friend and confidant. In his absence, it became my custom to write down the day's events, my thoughts and my feelings in a notebook so that I could look back later and remember to share them with Joey when we exchanged letters. After Joey was killed, I'd continued the practice. As Anne Frank observed, "Paper is more patient than man." My notebooks became a repository for all those things that I could no longer confess to anyone else. Uncapping my favorite Schaeffer fountain pen, I flipped to the first blank page and began to write about Michael. Even though I might never plan to see him again, I still wanted a record of the experience, and it was the only place I could explore my complicated and confused feelings.

***

            I had made my resolution to stay away from Mr. Michael Donovan, and in the week that followed I made a very sincere effort to adhere to it. I recognized the futility of casting Michael in the role of a substitute Joey. The two of them might share some similarities of temperament and experience, but Michael was not Joey. Michael could never take Joey's place, and there was no point in denying the fact that I would never see Joey again in this life. My attempt to forge some ephemeral link to Joey through Michael, however unconsciously it might be, was nothing but pitiful and a little sad.

            Deep in my heart of hearts I also knew that it was even more pitiful and sad to think of considering Michael as a surrogate for all those adolescent males who had yet to discover my existence. Having already outgrown schoolgirl crushes and the propensity to moon over movie stars, I could differentiate between love and infatuation, and I had nothing but disdain and impatience for my contemporaries who had yet to make the distinction.

            A little over a year ago, though, I had been just like them, casting furtive, longing glances across a crowded cafeteria at the object of my desire. His name was Tim, and he was Pastor Barlow's ruggedly handsome, angelic-voiced son. We sang together in the church choir, and I had been admiring him from afar from the time I was 12 years old. Unfortunately, Tim was at the top of that list of boys who didn't even know that I was alive.

            I wasn't the only one who was captivated by Tim's real and imagined charms, either. He was a grade ahead of me in school, and I'd watched other girls giggling and whispering behind their schoolbooks whenever he walked by. I'd seen them slipping anonymous notes into his locker after school. And, I knew all about their transparently contrived accidental meetings in the hopes that he might deign to notice them. As luck would have it, though, he never paid any more attention to them than he had to me. Apparently there was only room in Tim's heart for Tim. That's why I couldn't help feeling superior to all those silly little girls who didn't realize that they were only begging for misery.

            There's no one as judgmental as a newly reformed sinner, and I'd been guilty of those same behaviors myself. I'd taken scores of long walks that invariably just happened to take me past the parsonage in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Timothy Barlow. On rare occasions my efforts had been rewarded by the sight of Tim washing his car or mowing the lawn sans tee shirt, which certainly set my little heart to palpitating with nascent lust. Unfortunately, I was too shy to do anything beyond wave with forced nonchalance and quickly continue on my way. The idea of actually walking over and striking up a conversation with him was absolutely out of the question, and the very thought paralyzed me with terror. As far as young Mr. Barlow was concerned, I might just as well have been invisible.

            My obviously unrequited yearnings for Tim and my inability to get him to even look at me taught me a valuable lesson, though. In one of those unexpected, blinding moments of clarity, I suddenly knew that it was futile to try to compel someone else's love. After all, I'd been trying most of my life to make my parents love me, and I had meet with only miniscule success. If the people who should have been predisposed toward loving me were indifferent, what hope did I have of inspiring the love of anyone else?

            No, if people were going to love me, it would have to be their own idea, and there was nothing to be gained by behaving like a jackass. That's when I vowed that I would never again make a fool of myself over any boy. I made myself a solemn promise that I would never again let one break my heart. If love was going to happen to me, it would and there was nothing I could do to force the issue. I've always tended to be pragmatic, even in matters of the heart, which might very well account for my less than stellar track record with the opposite sex.

***

            As time passed, I quickly discovered that not thinking about Michael was far easier said than done. In his case, out of sight was most definitely not out of mind. The more I tried to forget about Michael, the more my thoughts seem to dwell unbidden on every miniscule detail of the time we'd spent together.

            I hoped that keeping busy would keep my mind off of the forbidden subject. Unfortunately, the mindless drudgery of housework accomplished exactly the opposite of that intent. My thoughts were left completely unoccupied. Idle hands may be the devil's tools, but an idle mind is really asking for trouble. Wielding a feather duster and pushing the vacuum cleaner left me too much time to dwell on things that I really had absolutely no business dwelling on.

            My parents surely noticed my newfound industriousness, but forbore questioning the reasons for it. They were perfectly happy that I had suddenly turned into some sort of Stepford teenager just like those creepy robot housewives in that story by Ira Levin. I'd discovered the tale in one of Mom's Reader's Digest Condensed Books a few months ago. Anything new that did not affect them negatively was happily accepted. Even though I became more brooding and reserved, my parents were oblivious. They had never shown any deep curiosity about how I passed my time, and I was equally as indifferent to the way they spent theirs. The fact that I'd even gone to the trouble of hiding my diary was really more out of embarrassment at admitting certain of my own feelings than any real fear that my parents might pry.

            I don't think my mother and father had enough interest in me to put themselves to the trouble of invading my privacy. As Michael had so aptly observed, I was far from being a troublesome teenager, and in his words, "not the type who breaks many rules at all." Of course, my parents thought I gave them endless grief just because my inclinations occasionally ran contrary to their own and I did not always acquiesce quickly or quietly to their wishes. True, I had been known to answer back, and sometimes had to be reminded to perform certain chores. My infractions were minor, however, compared to the hell that some of my acquaintances were putting their parents through. If either of my folks ever endured a sleepless night, it wasn't because of me.

            I wasn't popular with the boys, so my parents never had to worry about inappropriate behavior with the opposite sex. To tell the truth, I was too prudish to have behaved inappropriately even if I'd had the opportunity. My strict Baptist upbringing had effectively indoctrinated me on the evils of cigarettes, alcohol, and premarital sex, not to mention dancing, mixed swimming, and playing cards on Sunday. As for drugs, it had never occurred to me to do any experimenting, and my own mother couldn't even make that claim. She had an unfortunate fondness for diet pills and tranquilizers - uppers and downers by any other name - as prescribed by an accommodating family physician. Ironically, it would be many years before my parents would even begin to appreciate my virtually untarnished sterling character. Only when their contemporaries began to share their own child-rearing horror stories did my mother and father have an inkling of exactly how well-behaved a child I had been.